coming home to black-eyed susan season
by bam
the patch has dwindled over the years, in both circumference and abundance. but never in delight. in fact, the delight might hold inverse capacity to square-inch acreage. it’s the black-eyed susan patch, the one that nods along my garden path, the one that won’t give up — no matter how the burning bush does all it can to block the sun. no matter the weevil that shrivels all its leaves. the black-eyed susans will not pack up and walk away.
and for that, i am so grateful.
they strike a note of familiarity, of here-we-are-right-where-we-left-off. they mark the height-of-summer, the days when light takes on its amber hint, when each hour is more cherished, as we feel it slipping through our grasp. summer’s coming to a certain close, the black-eyed susans whisper, and we’re here to carry you across the finish line.
or in this year’s case, to wrap me in their cheery joys, to give me reason to haul the clippers out from under the kitchen sink and snip away at my endless bouquets.
we pulled into the alley at close to 1 in the morning the other night, my heart drained, my legs cramped. and even in the dark, as we hauled in the one or two things that couldn’t stay outside all night, i eyed those black-eyed wonders. they brushed against my shin, welcomed me back home.
gardens can be that way: gardens, in their episodic unfoldings, mark passages, tick off time across the months. we begin in lily-of-the-valley time, flow onto peony season, then hydrangea’s finest hour, and well past intermission, somewhere deep in the third act, the black-eyed susans come along. it’s a far finer way, i tell you, to tell the hour than glancing at a blinking screen.
there’ve been summers when we were headed out as the black-eyed susans paraded in. and i’m always sad to miss their spectacle, humble as it is, delightful in its simple two-hued contrast. but this year, my black-eyed susans unfold for me precisely when i need them: here and now, in these days when i am feeling a wee bit hollowed, when the hour might open up and suddenly pull me into a deep canyon of missing the someone i so love.
count me among the ones who bend my knee in gratitude to this holy earth, and its abundant healing balms. count me among the ones who marvel that be it sky, or rain, or stems rising from the earth, there are infinite notions and potions to soothe the hurt, to amplify the joy, to take our breath away. it’s God’s apothecary, and i’m its grateful customer.
this week has brought me a root canal, and a to-do list that will not end. we’re launching into a birthday weekend of most significant milestones — one someone i love has an odometer birthday, the sort that ends in zero, and another turns 16. and all along the way, the black-eyed susans bloom. and in that certainty, that joy, i rest my weary soul.
thank you, dear sweet susans. 
what brings you certain joy in the kaleidoscope of seasons, most especially in the garden?
Three years ago, I harvested seeds from two calla lilies, kept in a pot since spring and surviving at the pleasure of nature. I thought it unlikely that they would really produce blooms, especially when the first year produced thin shoots and last year’s growth wasn’t all that impressive.
But I’ve learned a few things about them and this year – the garden looks a bit tropical with these huge plants. And while not all those leaves accompanied bloom – this happened: one white and seven lovely pink blossoms to bless my soul!
I’ll take them up again this year and overwinter them in the garage.
I have expectations for next year’s bounty.
p.s. I just found Motherprayer in the largest and most active library in Baltimore County, MD. Just as I found Slowing Time – which may have encouraged me to look at Calla lily seeds with new eyes.
it’s the perennial nature, the won’t-give-up-on-us certainty of return, that brings such sustenance. nature is far bolder than we might ever be. if you kept me out in freezing rain, and tornado-force winds, i might not be sustained. but our black-eyed susans, and our calla lilies will not give up the ghost.
may your lilies bring you endless joy and that blast of loyal told-you-so we all need.
p.s. i find it endlessly amazing — and miraculous — that my little books have carved spaces in the libraries of the world. and on the bookshelves of great good souls, all of us now joined by simple words cobbled into sentences. telegrams from my heart, indeed.
“God’s apothecary…” Oh, yes. What a lovely words to describe the healing properties of earth and sky… I, too, mark time by garden bloom and wildflower. Also by robin and spring peeper, by wood thrush and catbird, by cabbage white and silver-spotted skipper, by katydid and cicada. Whether by petal-point or sound byte, the living beings of our natural world are a balm, a comfort, an assurance that while circumstance will forever vary, the seasons, with their winged and petaled heralds, are constant. This is what keeps me grounded when my head and heart are at war with change….
Thank you for this beautiful post and your wonderful way with words… As always, another constant, I send love to you, dear friend. xxxooo
i love the kaleidoscope of ways you tell time, with heaven and earth as your time keepers. we’re blessed those of us who keep the channels open, who inhale and absorb all the notes of holiness, however they flow in.
this post didn’t have half the heft i’d set out to find. but my weary bones just need a nap…….maybe i should curl up beside the black-eyed wonders……
I confess to being hopeless in the garden; cannot arrange a flower in a vase, even if it’s just one. I love to think of you puttering in your garden in the wee morning, gathering beauty. Happy birthday to your beloveds! And may you find many soul-soothing moments. xoxo
i don’t think you’re hopeless anywhere. which is precisely what friends are for. and in the friends dept., you are beyond exceptional. that’s one thing i know for CERTAIN! xoxox
I left a comment at lunchtime, Barbara, and it was just how I wanted to express my thoughts, but I must have goofed in saving it, because it’s somewhere wandering cyberspace, so let’s try again.
Once more, Barbara, you capture the stirrings of my heart as well, and I’m left with such a strong feeling of connection, of oneness that we as mothers share as our young loves mature and are itching to ply their own course. Again I’m in tears as I feel our bond, remembering the ache years ago, as I drove home from four college move-in days, witnessing the eager anticipation of my college freshman sons and daughters as they ushered us into the car to return home and to let their next big chapter begin. I remember my eldest, Ben, now thirty-five, assuring me that we didn’t need to walk him back to his dorm after our last lunch with him as the Ben of old. He hugged us, then traipsed off, all six-three of him, loping toward the Indiana University residence halls, confident, ready…and not looking back at us for that last wave. He was ready…I was far from it. The ride home was thick with longing to have our pieces all back in place, of holding on to the tremulous yesterdays, and wondering what our new family rhythms would be like.
I remember leaving our second-born, Claire, now thirty-two, at the dorm of her art school in Columbus, Ohio, heading to the car, and turning around, camera in hand, to take a quick photo of her dorm, only to see her, up in her third floor room, leaning on the sill of her open window with a little smile on her face, as adulthood was about to begin. I treasure that photo, and I can close my eyes and feel all those emotions that filled my heart as we left our girl in Ohio, praying that all would be well.
Now, almost twenty years since that first chick left the nest, all four are still my own brood, and when we’re home together, it’s like I’m whole again, as will happen in a month, when Ben will drive in from Louisville with his lovely fiancée to marry her, here in our small Indiana town. Our younger son, Danny, and his family will be here, our youngest, Annie, will fly in from Durango with her sweet boyfriend, and my Claire will drive in with hers from Bloomington. And Barbara, my heart will swell with the familiar, with peace and completeness, as we all hang out together around our patio, the evening before the wedding. I close my eyes, and it’s 1992, with the four of them sitting at the picnic table on our screened-in porch, content and tired from their summer dip in the pool, and oblivious to the blessings and the magic in their midst, as integral parts of the holy whole, as family.
Barbara, your words evoke mirrored emotions in me, and I know it’s because we have more than our names in common. We share the gift we’ve been given of living in the infinitesimal, yet priceless moments of life, of being aware of, and thankful for, the susans caressing our shins.
Thank you, Barbara, for another beautiful connection with us all.
Much love, Barbzie
oh, dear dear dear barbzie, first i am just crushed for you that your beautifully composed reply, a heartfelt and glorious essay i’m sure, has decided to bob in the seas of cyberspace, untethered. maybe it will find its way to our shores. but your second essay, above, is just gorgeous. and oh my gracious, i can only begin to imagine the whirl of a wedding on the horizon……
you so gloriously capture the magic powers of motherhood at this particular phase, where we close our eyes and turn back in time, feel the summer porch, hear the sounds…..i love your use of “swell,” in terms of the capacities of the heart. it’s that vessel, that sinew and flesh, that swells and contracts, ebbs and flows, sometimes full to bursting, sometimes achingly missing.
this morning, a quiet saturday morning, i am just home from the farmer’s market, the counters groaning under the weight of midwest sweet corn and tomatoes of every stripe and color. but my heart is not quite humming along. my heart is aching and missing. i turn to wise souls like you, ones ahead of me on the trail, and i squeeze your hand, and soak in your words. and i wish for you all the blessing in the world as you swirl in the joys of that most blessed wedding. thank you SO much for gracing this table not once but twice this week with your beautiful beautiful heart…..xoxoxo